Meals of Remembrance
In a recent post, I noted that my love language is food preparation. When I approach food prep and presentation with full attention, I get lost in the process. That feeling continues through to the consumption, as well. Yea, consumption sounds so sterile. My point in this story telling isn’t to be, perhaps, so eloquent.
My point is to share another story.
Today is my late grandmother’s birthday. She, Frieda, passed away in January of 2019; I know she visited as she left. I was awake and restless at that time. I only learned hours later that she had died during the time I was jostled out of bed. That’s a different story.
When my grandmother was spry, in years before yesterday, she’d visit often. My Mom would make the short trip to Jersey to pick her up for a long weekend. Frieda didn’t drive. Actually, Frieda never had a driver’s license. I actually couldn’t ever imagine her operating a car. She did enough operating from the passenger seat.
During one of Frieda’s extended visits, my Mom and I took her to a local diner. I remember where we sat - Mom and I sat side-by-side with Frieda across from us. She was tiny in stature, but absolutely needed her elbow room. I will never remember what I ordered. I will never remember what my mother ordered. But I will never forget what Frieda ordered.
“I’ll have the chicken pot pie.”
Mom and I knew that this was a mistake. Frieda ordering chicken pot pie, one of the daily specials, from a diner in Emmaus, Pennsylvania wasn’t the best choice. In what felt like minutes, our meals were placed atop of the thin paper advertisements. Before the server had an opportunity to fully place the chicken pot pie in front of Frieda, we heard the words:
“Oh, I didn’t order this.”
Frieda had expected a crock full of a soulful stew topped with a buttery pastry. What Frieda received, was a crock full of thick square shapes suspended in the semi-congealed substance. Frieda argued a bit with the server, who handled it well enough. The server explained exactly what was ordered. But Frieda was just baffled by what was sitting in front of her. I giggled. Mom tried to help Frieda make sense of the dish. It was a futile attempt, as years later Frieda never made sense of it. I’m still a little confused myself.
·Tonight, I made a different type of soul warming stew. Tonight, the day of Frieda’s birthday, I made chicken and dumplings. I had never made this dish before, nor had I ever eaten it. I didn’t understand how a drab flour mixture would be tasty enough to please a palate. Nevertheless, I persisted. I would have preferred the meal that Frieda thought she was getting, but I can’t seem to bring myself to make it. At least, not yet.
I’m sad that towards the end of Friend’s life here, memories like these were lost. I do find joy in reflecting on those little moments and pouring that into a meal of remembrance.
I made enough to bring leftovers to Mom. I couldn’t bring myself to share why I made it because we would have been reduced to tears. For now, the words will live here.
The picture in this post was on my grandmother’s photo board at her assisted living facility. I took pictures of all the pictures; they’re saved as Favorites on my phone. I’ll never forget a lot - like the way she held onto my arm, how she always dressed so snazzy when we went out, or her boisterous laugh that would sometimes leave her breathless. #foreverfrieda
